


My Sand Walls Could Never Stand Against Your Pale Sea

by Sleepless_Girl



Category: DCU
Genre: ... can be read as a sequel or stand-alone, Angst and Porn, Fuckbuddies, M/M, Porn with Feelings, beta read? psshh... we die like jason todd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-21 18:13:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21286163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepless_Girl/pseuds/Sleepless_Girl
Summary: A tsunami is waiting to happen.Ready to crash into the guarded walls of a British man.
Relationships: John Constantine/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 8
Kudos: 90





	My Sand Walls Could Never Stand Against Your Pale Sea

Downright sinful was the way Bruce’s back bowed. 

Pale skin blemished with scars and bruises. Bruises that mixed with equally mulberry purple lovebites. The difference between both seemingly a blurry line. His hips thrust forwards as hands gripped at slim hips. Feeling as those same hips rolled back at his actions. 

Fair waves crashing onto a tan shore. 

Each roll nothing short of beautifully desperate. Making quivering thighs spread more to lure him into the milky sea. John never was one to be good at not biting into the sin that was lust. Bruce’s skin was clear proof of that. In that case, John had little else to do than to plunge himself deeper into the tantalising waters. Long fingers grasped at his thin sheets, as a short whine left ripe lips. Bruce’s left cheek laid on the disarrayed mattress. Lashes hovering over rose red high cheekbones. 

John’s breath caught in his throat. 

Swallowed. This pale sea had swallowed him. His breath drowned by the salt water in his lungs. 

Closing his eyes, he forced himself to continue. Making his cock dig itself deeper. 

_'No time for romances, John,'_ a small voice reminded him.

_'Bit too late for that, don’t ya think Johnny boy?'_ Another voice quickly chaffs. 

His right hand slid elsewhere from the small waist. Skimming down onto the inside of a strong thigh, until it found hot flesh. Swiftly, his palm turned into a tight fist. Going over the head of Bruce’s cock with his thumb. Beads of cum dribble down onto his knuckles and sheets. Leaving markings on the polyester duvet.

Stains he would have to wash later. When the clock has already struck well past twelve o’clock midnight and he was standing in some rundown launderette. With an erection at the thought of what had caused said stains. 

Bugger.

A soft moan leaves Bruce at the hollow push he made. Each push in sync with the pull of his fist. John’s left hand inches away from the hip, sliding its way up unlike its counterpart. Up and up sculpted muscles and pectorals. Until it rests on the neck of the other. Index finger lightly traced the sharp jaw with tender strokes. Below his hand, he can sense the wild pulse of the other man’s heart. Leaping in a staccato beat. So this is what it takes to make the Dark Knight’s heart beat like a schoolgirl’s, Constantine ponders.

He remembers watching the other leap and race on rooftops. Not a single dot of sweat rolled down, and his voice was still steady. Leaving him to wonder… what was it that made Batman’s—Bruce’s—heart beat? Guess he knows now.

John pulls the slender neck up. Black locks fall on Bruce’s features as his face rises from being pressed onto the bed. 

And shit. 

Bruce—Bruce shouldn’t be letting him do this. But he does. Night after night. And John curses at the man for allowing him to do so. Curses himself even more for bloody loving it. His pupils dilate at the way Bruce arches back—neck bare and spine in a heavenly curve—towards his chest. It’s like finding euphoria amid Hell. Like finding the holy grail, or some other shit. He stares at the way the flickering lights—he needs to call the bloody maintenance—in his room melt onto Bruce’s skin like liquid gold. His eyes follow the drip of yellow down until he catches sight of Bruce’s cock still in his palm. Which was red and angry. More pearl droplets left the slit of Bruce’s knob. Making explicit—as if shagging wasn’t vulgar enough—sounds come from the way his palm went up and down the carmine flesh. 

A growl leaves his throat as Bruce’s back hits his sandy chest. Neck still exposed in a form of invitation. As if Bruce was tempting him. Mocking. John’s an utter twat. 

He leans down and places his forehead on broad shoulders. He closes his eyes. John is not afraid… he’s stared at Satan with a straight face after stealing from the demon for fuck’s sake! Grabbed life by the bullocks. Then—he—why is he so bloody scared? It’s a question that leaves him gobsmacked. 

Making him hide behind smoke screens and an English pessimism. 

Look how well that’s working out for ya, he mocks himself. It was utter codswallop to shag Bruce from nothing but behind. To close his eyes anytime the vigilante got too close. He felt like the poor lad Orpheus. 

Constantine knew Bruce probably thought he was trying to imagine someone else as he fucked him. Ha, how far from the truth was he. The British man had already tried that. Tried to envision Zee, Nic, or his hundreds of other fuck buddies over the years. Even bringing back to memory the arsehole of Stanley. But, much to his dismay, the New York man always ended being at the end of his desires. A deceiver is what John was. As fuckin’ fake as the jarg sunnies the dodgy ol’ weasel of Booth tries to sell out of his beaten Volkswagen. 

The blond man still remembers the first time—the fuckin’ cause of this all to happen. He chuckles darkly at the memory. 

The memory seared onto his mind of Bruce Wayne, Prince of Gotham and Batman, spread on red sheets. Legs open and breaths coming in ragged. He could never forget the look. The absolute lust on those dark, dark blue eyes. So dark they seemed almost black. A shade to compete with the midnight sky. Half-lidded eyes did little to obscure the hunger. In fact, they only added the factor of fanning black lashes. Lashes that tickled at his neck when Bruce had hidden his face in the crook of neck. Trying—and failing—to conceal the deep moan that left his throat. That’s when Constantine’s world had tilted. 

After that night, he found himself wanking off to the thought of ocean-blue eyes and moon lit skin. That’s when John came to the realisation that he couldn’t look Bruce in the eyes. Glad was he that Batman wore a cowl. So, with that rubbish excuse, that is why he can’t look at Bruce.

Can’t add onto that desire clawing at his mind at heart. And poor gormless Bruce—though observant—could not recognise the signs of a demon latching onto him. 

Opening his eyes, John lets his gaze linger on the scarred back. His ears catch the heavy pants Bruce was letting out. Right hand gives one more downward tug at hot flesh before leaving. A whine emits from the left of him. One that makes him bite onto the marked shoulder blade. Causing Bruce to let out a small shaky breath as his hips bucked back trying to find friction. This caused his hand to squeeze on the black-haired man’s throat. 

Bruce stopped.

“John.”

Fuck him. 

Bruce—he—he always managed to say his name like... like a secret only to be told to the winds.

He can’t help it. Can’t stop himself from snarling before flipping the other on his back. A yelp leaves his companion. 

“I thought ya were the fearsome Batbloke of Gotham?”

“Shut up and just… fuck me.”

“Oi, and I thought the royal family was the only one capable of demands.” 

Lips crashed onto his. Shutting whatever more retorts were to come from his mouth. 

He slips his cock out of the tight arse that Bruce Wayne carries. Opting to push his finger inside the puckered muscle. Earning him a surprised gasp. This gives his tongue the opportunity to explore the other’s mouth. The lube he had used earlier in the night—along with his own pre-cum—makes his fingers effortlessly slide in and out. Soon another digit goes inside. Bruce tastes like fresh tea, Hobnobs, and… him. A taste he tries to print on his tongue. His middle finger presses on the hot walls around it, making a keen sound come from below him. 

Good.

His fingers pump with a more vicious nature. Sweat-slick legs soon wrap around his hips. Pulling him closer until both men’s cocks touched. Causing them to let out a moan. Unknown to him, Bruce’s palm had been trailing down his abdomen. Making him slightly jump at the touch; a groan leaves his mouth along with a “fuck” when said hand clutches both their cocks. On his lips he can feel the other smirk. Cheeky little bastard. 

Bruce’s hand pumps both of their cocks. Constantine can feel every small jerk of the other’s dick, as so does Bruce. The heat between them scorching. 

Orpheus feeling the fires of Hell at his feet.

John grabs both of Bruce’s hands and pins them above his head. He knows—as well as Bruce—that there are a dozen ways the Gothamite could break out the hold. Instead, Bruce only raises an eyebrow. 

John kisses Bruce’s jaw. Letting his tongue dance on the edge before trailing down the sensible neck. Nibbling here and there, yet soon continuing on. Finally he stops at perked nipples. He blows on them. Seeing the shiver that makes the man under him quiver like a leaf on an autumn day. He leans his lips more down. Until his lips capture the small pink bud. Right as he does this, he curls the fingers still inside of Bruce.

“Ah, ah, ah,” the raven-haired fellow gasps. “Pl—please,” soon follows. John knows Bruce feels embarrassed at being sensible around his chest area.

“Sorry, luv,” John chuckles onto the slick skin.

Carefully he rises from the other’s chest.

Instead, he lets his hand gripping at fair wrists trail down. Opting instead to clutch for Bruce’s leg. Placing it on his shoulder. His fingers remove themselves from Bruce’s bum. Leaving the other to grind on air. Lining his cock, Constantine enters Bruce. Skin on skin slaps loudly, bouncing off the walls. Bruce throws his head back. A soft mewl drips down his mouth like golden syrup. 

So unfair, Constantine thinks. So selfish, he scolds. 

He shouldn’t do this to Bruce. Bruce who, though always hidden in the shadows, is light itself. A beacon that should lead lost sailors. Not hungry sirens. Bruce was too good. For the man was white and black. Yin and yang in one soul. Balance.

While John was… grey. 

His hips go in with another slam. He knows it would probably bruise both, but neither seem to care. In fact, Bruce’s arms seem to latch onto his back. Clawing and leaving stinging red trails. Closing his eyes once more, John focuses on the simple movement. On the rolls of hips and obscene sounds emerging from both. Then he hears it. Hears that higher pitch Bruce’s voice goes to when he finds that sweet spot. Constantine bends Bruce more and aims at that spot. Hearing as muffled moans manage to slip past tight lips. 

Bruce’s body goes taunt like a bow. 

_“John.”_

**Author's Note:**

> After the positive support last story I was quite pumped to make another. Tbh, I didn't think people would be interested. But with your lovely comments and kudos, you made me realize that there _is_ people who like this ship (like me). And plenty more who should be aware of it. 
> 
> SO... thank you to all the comments and kudos. Y'all are the best. 🖤


End file.
